Present Imperfect
by Eloise
Summary: Set Season 3. Wes has a terrible decision to make concerning a book, a baby and a betrayal....Chap 11 added - *STORY COMPLETE*
1. Prologue Made to be lost

TITLE : Present Imperfect

AUTHOR : Eloise

RATING : PG13

DISCLAIMER : Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. (Well, maybe just a little.)

SUMMARY : Set during Season 3. Wes has a terrible decision to make concerning a book, a baby and a betrayal…

NOTES: This is the Prologue -  Chap 1 of 11 ( I hope!) The story starts as canon but will go AU pretty quickly. Chapters will be mainly Wes or Angel POV – with a few guest appearances!  The quotation below is by Matthew Henry from "The Earthly Paradise – the Hill of Venus"

PROLOGUE : Made to be Lost

"A world made to be lost 

_A bitter life 'twixt pain and nothing tost"_

Connor kicked and stretched in the little cradle, made a soft kitten-like mewing sound. He hadn't yet developed the full blown cry of an older infant, Wesley noted as he went to the cot and lifted him very gently. 

The baby wriggled against his shoulder, his tiny abdomen rigid with tension. Wes pressed his hand firmly onto Connor's back, and was rewarded with a deep burp that resounded through his little frame. 

Almost immediately, the jerky leg movements stopped, and Connor snuggled into him, his dark head nestled beside his neck. Wesley was constantly surprised at the ease with which he handled Angel's baby. He had no experience of babies, no younger siblings, and when he had first held the newborn infant, he had been terrified of his own clumsiness.

But from that first moment, Connor and he had been completely at ease. So much so that Wesley could comfort Connor when no one else could. "The magic touch", Fred had called it, as he sat in his office, Connor fast asleep on his chest. That both pleased and annoyed Angel, who would sometimes appear in his office in despair, having tried to soothe Connor for hours.

"Here" he would say, thrusting the child at him in frustrated despair. "See if you can settle him"

Wes would take the child, sensing Angel's frustration, knowing the baby did too. He would wind Connor, or hum softly to him, and the child would relax against him, just as he did now.

"How do you do that?"

"He knows when you're uptight, Angel."

Good at reading his father's moods. As Wesley was too. Since Cordelia had gone off with Groo, Angel had been spending more time with his infant son. Which had been fine with Wes until he translated the prophecy. Now he was terrified to leave them alone together. Kept thinking up pathetic excuses to be with them. This morning at the doctor's surgery, for instance.

Connor's breathing had slowed, and Wes laid him gently in the crib, settling him on his back.

At the break in contact, the baby fussed a little, so he placed his hand on Connor's chest, and rocked the cradle back and forth with his knee.

"Cranky, huh?"

He still had that ability to slip into a room unnoticed. Or perhaps he was so absorbed with the baby he hadn't heard him. Angel came over to the cot and made to lift his son.

"No." Wesley heard himself say too sharply. "I mean, he's just gone over. Don't wake him." His tone now softly apologetic.

Strangely, Angel wasn't offended.

" That's okay. Was he fussing much?"

"Just a little wind"

Angel nodded sagely. 

"He guzzled his last bottle. Kid's got some appetite."

He smiled proudly, as if Connor had done something wonderful. God, how could he possibly believe this man would hurt his child. He doted upon Connor, adored him absolutely. The prophecy must be wrong. It had to be.

"Find anything?

Caught in his train of thought, Wesley started guiltily and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"It's tricky. I've found lots of references, but they're from various sources. It will take some time to piece them together."

Not exactly a lie, but Wes could barely meet the vampire's eyes. How could he not know? Sense the anguish in his voice as he lied to him.

"You look rough, Wes."

Angel settled himself by the crib, took up the rocking rhythm that Wes had begun. Wes ran his hand across a strong beard shadow, didn't tell the vampire he hadn't been home last night.

"You should give the books a rest. Go out and get some air."

It was tempting, he had to admit. To leave the prophecy, the doubt, the guilt, and just escape. Then Connor mewed softly in his sleep and he knew he would not leave him alone with his father. 

" It's fine, really. I'm just a little tired. I'll make coffee."

He busied himself in the small kitchen, emptying the old grounds into the sink. Not quite as soothing as making tea, but the ritual relaxed him slightly. Besides, he didn't want to be soothed. He needed to stay alert, thus a strong dose of caffeine was required. 

With the flick of a switch, the heavy tobacco rich aroma of strong coffee filled the room. He found himself wishing for a cigarette, although he had never smoked. His father had ensured his compliance in avoiding that particular vice, when he had smelled smoke on his ten year old son's clothes.

It did not matter that Wesley had not been smoking, that it had been his best friend Simon who had swiped the cigarette from _his father's desk, while Wes had simply kept watch. Guilt by association was reason enough for punishment. Not that Wesley had tried to explain._

He had learned early not to challenge his father's authority, knew not to talk back. It was  better to knuckle under and take whatever was coming, whether he deserved it or not.

His father saw things only as black and white, good and evil, right and wrong. Such concepts were mutually exclusive. Shades of grey did not exist in his world.

He knew what his father would say about his current predicament. It was obvious. An innocent child, and a creature capable of extraordinary evil. The solution was simple. The child must be removed from its father. He would not allow his judgement to be clouded by concerns such as pity, love or loyalty. He saw those only as weaknesses, with no place in the fight for the greater good.

Wes poured his coffee and drank it black. It burned his throat, setting an ache in his chest. He embraced the pain, as if any small self – inflicted hurt could somehow reduce the larger pain of what he was considering.

"Too soft, too weak," 

His father's scornful litany of his failures played in his head, his voice never clearer than in these times of self doubt, disgust and despair.

"Hey, blue eyes," Lorne stood in the doorway, watching him intently. "You been taking lessons?"

Wesley looked at him, genuinely confused.

"The dark, brooding, not talking vibe." Lorne moved his head in the direction of the lobby. 

"You could give Mr. Taciturn out there a run for his money."

Wesley was desperate for him not to sense the turmoil in his mind. He swallowed his anguish, resolved to present a calm exterior.

"Um, sorry. Just working on a particularly tricky translation, you know.'

He believed him, of course, they all knew how he got with research. It used to annoy him, when they would leave him to work on his own, but suddenly it was very useful that no one wanted to help.

Lorne looked hard at him for a few more seconds

"Take a break, Wes."

He held out the coffee cup, a false, bright smile on his face.

"This is me, taking a break. Would you like some?"

Lorne sniffed the air suspiciously.

"Thanks, but no thanks. I like my caffeine hits a little less concentrated!"

He turned to leave, and Wesley felt a sudden irrational pang of anger that Lorne hadn't been able to read him. He was an empath demon, for heavens sake!  Couldn't he feel his despair?

For just a moment he wanted to share his burden, his fears for Connor's safety. Have someone tell him he was wrong, it was all a big mistake. For just a moment…

And then he knew. Standing alone in the tiny kitchen, empty coffee cup in hand. He made the decision. He would do his damnedest to disprove the prophecy, keep father and son together.

But if it was true, then he would take Connor away from Angel. He really had no choice.

The others wouldn't understand, they would try to reason out why Angel would never do such a thing. The problem was, there was no reasoning with prophecies. They simply were. So it was up to him to protect the child. And if that meant cutting himself off from the people he loved, then so be it.

With renewed determination, he returned to his office, closed the door, and picked up the telephone.


	2. A Closer Tether

TITLE : Present Imperfect

AUTHOR : Eloise

RATING : PG13

DISCLAIMER : Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. (Well, maybe just a little.)

NOTES : Chap 2 of 11. First of the guest appearance POVs. This is where it goes AU…

Title and quotation are from the poem "Any Woman" by Katharine Tynan.

Chapter  2 : A Closer Tether

" I am the twist that holds together

  The children in its sacred ring

  Their knot of love, from whose close tether

  No lost child goes a-wandering."

She smoothed down her tousled curls and gave herself an approving look in the bathroom mirror. Not bad, for a human of course, none of that dreadful peroxide that Anyanka seemed addicted to.

Not that she was here to seek a mate. Such trivialities were beneath her. Her calling was an altogether higher one. She had been waiting a long time to help this lost one.

One last glance in the mirror, and she marvelled at the casualness of the scrubs she was wearing. Over the years she had played many parts, substitute teachers, social workers, but her favourite was nurse .How the uniform had changed, she thought, fondly remembering the stiff starched formality of her previous incarnations. The perfect disguise.

She closed the bathroom door and padded softly down the dimly-lit corridor to his door. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, had lost rather a lot of blood from the vicious wound at his neck. She busied herself, checking his vitals, and tried to ignore the terrible sense of loneliness she felt from him.

He'd got more scars since she'd seen him last. His hobby, it seemed, was collecting scars the way some boys collected stamps. She moved him onto his side, careful not to touch his neck, and noted the gunshot wound at the edge of his belly, a dark circle that sucked at the surrounding skin. There were several knife wounds round his shoulder blades, also relatively recent. A small crescent shaped scar nestled in the small of his back, and below that she observed the older scar tissue, now faded to a pale tracery of fine lines crisscrossing his lower back. She felt the same raw, justified anger she had experienced almost twenty-five years previously.

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He had slept fitfully that first night, the cast on his arm had made it difficult to get comfortable, and he had moaned in his sleep. She had seen him earlier that day, keeping very quiet, even when they reset the bone. Not wanting to be noticed. And of course that made her notice him even more.

She had watched him as his parents had visited. Obedient to the point of submissiveness, he had listened carefully to his father's expectations of his behaviour, and his directives on the useful occupation of his time. A pile of books was conspicuous on the bedside locker, Latin and Greek grammars and texts for translation. He had nodded silently to signify his understanding of the instructions.

She had watched him as his parents had taken their leave. His mother had touched his hand gently, and he had raised his head to look at her, blue eyes bright behind his glasses. The love hunger in them was so desperate it made her heart ache. The child needed to be held, it was obvious, but such displays of affection were not permitted. His father had drawn her away, and spoken firmly to the boy, who had blinked hard and dropped his head. And they were gone.

He had lain there quietly for a long time, blinking over and over, only just managing not to cry. She had watched him fall asleep, and had crept into his room, her hand hovering above his. Not that she needed to do this. She had sensed his pain as soon as he had entered the hospital. She steeled herself to the task. She needed proof. Justice demanded nothing less. She paced her hand on his….

A flash of light and she was in a hallway. Dark and rather oppressive. The leaded lights in the front door filtered the light to a faint gold, bouncing off the panelled walls and illuminating the intricate tile design on the floor. The stairs were dark oak, a rich red carpet ran the length of the centre, held in place by ornate brass rods.

She stepped towards them, resting her hand on the newel post. The polished wooden sphere was cool beneath her fingers. She rocked slightly, a sensation not unlike sea-sickness overwhelmed her. She hated this part. 

She was filled with a terrible aching sorrow, but nothing tangible, nothing definable. She lifted her hand from the stair post and knew she was close now. She ran her hand along the panelled wall until she came to a cupboard door. She knew without trying the handle that it was locked. She summoned up the courage to lay her palm against the door.

A flash again, and her hand was glued to the door as if by electric current.

(Bitter sobbing, pain and anguish mixing with terror. ' Please, come let me out. I'll do better, I'll try harder. Please, Father, it's so dark. Please, let me out'}

She wrenched her hand away from the wood and she was back in the hospital room, her hand still covering his. She shook as she stepped back from the child. He moaned in his sleep, and she moved forward to waken him.

'No' The deep, familiar voice surprised her. 'This child is not your concern.'

He did not usually interfere with her work.

'Of course he is. You felt it too, I know.' She was shocked at her own boldness.

'No. He is protected against our kind.'

'A protection spell? They know?'

'They are Watchers. They work on the side of good.'

'But he needs help.' She protested softly.

'Do not fight this, Halfrek. You will not win. You cannot help him.'

But she was unwilling to leave it there.

'D'Hoffryn, this child is in pain. They have caused it. There must be justice. Balance.'

She was appealing to his logic and intellect, rather than his emotions. His voice was calm, soft, even.

'It is not for you to decide. There are other powers at work here.' He paused, laid his hand gently over her own. 'There will be balance. But it is not time.'

She heard the child crying bitterly behind the locked door, felt her own face wet. 

'Not time? But how can I leave him?'

'Because you must.'

And he had taken her to another place, shown her another child's pain.

'We help those we can, Halfrek.'

She had made an oath to herself that day. She would not desert him. She had watched him grow, survive the treatment he received, manage to overcome the obstacles placed in his path. The frightened, submissive child became a man.

He had been sent to the Hellmouth, full of hope, trying to hide his insecurities beneath a mask of false confidence. And they had punished him simply for being there, for crimes others had committed. Children could be as cruel as adults, she knew. She did not intervene.

In Los Angeles, with the souled vampire, he had found acceptance, understanding, something approaching family. She began to realize that D'Hoffryn had been right. The man he had become had learned much from the child he had been. Bravery despite fear, kindness despite cruelty, gentleness despite rough treatment. If she had intervened then, perhaps he would not be this man now.

This man who fought for the greater good, who could forgive mockery and torture if there was a chance of redemption. This man who would lay down his life for a friend. Betray a friend to save his soul….

She had watched in the park, as he had fallen into darkness, betrayer, betrayed. Had been startled by the voice at her ear.

'It is almost time.'

'D'Hoffryn? How did you know…?'

A foolish question. Of course he had known.

'There will be balance. Justice will be done.'

And thus things were set in motion. For twenty-five years she had watched him. Now she was about to step onto the stage.


	3. Land of Dreams

TITLE : Present Imperfect

AUTHOR : Eloise

RATING : PG13

DISCLAIMER : Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. (Well, maybe just a little.)

NOTES : Chap 3 of 11. This part contains some dialogue and action from 'Forgiving', but is AU! Title and quotation are from the poem 'Dover Beach' by Matthew Arnold.

Chapter 3 : Land of Dreams

"……for the world, which seems

To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Not certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain, 

And we are here as on a darkling plain."

He stared at the crib, ghost-white against the blackness of the room. It hurt, a physical ache in his dead heart, which threatened to break it in pieces. H e had felt pain before; his soul had then been the instrument of torture. To allow him to fully comprehend the enormity of his sins. Not to love, or be loved.

Somewhere along the way he had forgotten that, and had fallen into love with this tiny miracle. How could he have been so stupid? They would never allow that.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment he was holding him close, feeling the tiny dark head nuzzle at his neck, as he hummed a half-remembered lullaby. He could still smell him, here in this room, a lingering aroma of baby bath and powder, mingling with his own sweet scent, warm and milky. The sudden sense of his child's presence almost overpowered him; he had to step up to the cradle just to check that he was truly gone.

He could not bring himself to touch the cradle, prove that it was empty. To acknowledge that truth was to open the door to such grief and darkness. He wasn't sure his soul would survive intact. Losing his soul was not an option now. That could prove the prophecy true, making Wesley's actions understandable. He did not want to understand.

Lorne stepped into the room apologetically.

'You headed to the hospital, Angelcakes?'

He gave a swift nod, swallowing the pain down, storing it up for later.

'You tell that idiot, he's – well - a big idiot!' But he said it gently, forgiveness in his tone.

Again he nodded, careful not to make any sound that could be seized upon and read. He gathered his duster from the bed, and swung away from the burning brightness of his child's crib.

Fred and Gunn sat side by side on a small sofa outside the room, not touching, lost in a set of events that defied belief. The door to Wesley's room was closed, the blinds drawn. He could not see him. Not like that other times, when he had stared helplessly through a window at his bruised and battered friend. Had sat by him in the ICU, and touched the burn-reddened skin on his hands. He had willed him to survive. And the other time, when Cordy had made him leave, he had known his friend was loved, protected by the others. Now he was alone.

They were on their feet now, describing his condition.

'Trachea's all messed up – he's lost a lot of blood.' Gunn looked dazed.

'Not completely out of the woods, yet" Fred babbled. 

Oh, he knew that.

'You being here can only help.'

Silly girl. He opened at the door and was unexpectedly transported back three years, to the night of the explosion. He felt the same anguished concern as he observed the pallor of the Englishman, heard the faint beep of the heart monitor, beating out the rhythm of life.

But there was no place for that now. Now there was nothing but a book, a baby and a betrayal. (Not out of the woods, yet.)

He heard himself speak, the words seemed appropriate, but they didn't sound quite right to him .He wondered if Wesley sensed this, but it appeared he was too drugged to reflect upon the nuances of tone. But he wanted him to understand.

'This isn't Angelus talking; it's me, Angel. You know that right?

His eyes opened, blue as the sea, guilt, shame and anguish bright in them. He did not care. (Not out of the woods, yet.)

'Good' 

He moved with impossible speed, had the pillow over his face before Wesley realized what was happening.

'You son of a bitch, you're gonna pay for what you did! You took my son!'

He felt the weak fingers claw ineffectually at his wrist.

'You think I forgive you? Never! You're gonna die, you hear me?'

Inside, his soul twisted, stretching to breaking point. He did not care. He pressed the pillow harder, felt the struggles of the man weaken. He did not care. The desire to punish was strong in him, to hurt as he had been hurt. Wesley needed to know, to understand the enormity of what he had done. To suffer for his sins. He spat out his rage and sorrow, directing them at his former friend.

'You're a dead man, Pryce, a dead man!'

The alarm from the bedside monitor confirmed this briefly. Long enough to attract the attention of those at the nurses' station. The door burst open and they were upon him, hauling him away. He let himself be pulled. He did not care. His son was gone and it hurt to exist without him.

Gunn was beside him, in his face, almost, shouting something. He couldn't hear, he was underwater, drowning. Fred ran to catch up, caught his arm, her eyes liquid. He shook her off; hard enough to make her stumble, then heard a roar.

'You – you bastard!' Gunn was grabbing at his coat.

'No, Charles, leave it!' Fred 's voice sounded wobbly.

He swung round to face him, not quite managing to suppress a snarl.

'Get away from me!' he growled, and was surprised when Gunn stopped short and stared at him.

'Just go, man.'

He dropped his hands to his sides. Then turned on his heel and strode away from his friends. He knew they were stunned by his actions. He did not care. He heard the hum of electricity through the ECG paddles, and the beep of the monitor, as they shocked Wesley back into this world. He did not care. Better that he live with the knowledge of his crime.

He became aware of someone watching him. He turned briefly, and observed the dark-haired nurse who met his gaze steadily. She was reasonably pretty, the dark curls and pale skin reminded him of the girls in his village back in Ireland. Her eyes were a mixture of hazel and green; the colour seemed to shift as she gazed at him

'He's alive, you know.'

He nodded tersely. ' I can hear that.'

'Of course you can.'

Light bounced off the jewelled locket she wore, its colour shimmering between amber and green.

'He took my son.' He spread his palms wide, had no idea why he was explaining himself to her.

'I know.' 

He offered nothing more, no platitudes, no excuses for his behaviour. ' I don't know how to do this,' he whispered, his whole body suddenly sagging, limbs heavy. ' How to go on without him'

She blinked. ' You'll find a way.' Her tone was even, no hint of concern, no sarcasm. 'Things are not always as they seem.'

'Tell me. Please.' He pleaded.

 She raised her head again, fixed him with those eyes. 'Go home, Angel.'

'Please.'

'It's not time. Go home.'

He was dismissed, knew he would get nothing more from her. He turned away and walked slowly towards the stairwell. He was almost at the door when he heard it.

'But soon.'


	4. Serpent's Tooth

TITLE : Present Imperfect

AUTHOR : Eloise

RATING : PG13

DISCLAIMER : Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. (Well, maybe just a little.)

NOTES : Chap 4 of 11. Many thanks for all your kind reviews! I'm sorry I haven't updated sooner; but real life has been rather hectic! 

I have most of this story written on paper – unfortunately my typing skills leave much to be desired. This chapter is a little shorter than the preceding ones and features another guest appearance POV. Title and quote are from 'King Lear' Act 1 Sc.4. Biblical quote is from Proverbs Ch.19 V.18 (King James Version)

Chapter 4 : Serpent's Tooth

"How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child"

He wasn't sure why he was doing this. He hooked the retaining straps across the neatly folded shirts and closed the suitcase carefully. The soft leather yielded easily as he zipped and buckled his luggage. Chocolate brown, slightly worn, but very obviously expensive. The tiny gold initials that nestled next to the straps signified exclusivity without ostentation.

That was the persona he presented; cultivated, a man of extreme good taste and breeding. He could not abide sloppiness of appearance or laziness of mind. The result of his upbringing; he had instilled these disciplines in the boy, almost unconsciously.

For all the good it had done him. The child seemed determined to disappoint at every available opportunity. As a small boy, Wesley had been gentle-natured and naturally timid; certainly not strong enough to face the demands his destiny would place upon him. He had viewed it as his fatherly duty to toughen him up; make him stronger. And he had set about this duty with dedication.

"Chasten thy son while there is hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying."

It was for his own good, he explained calmly to Wesley, each time discipline was necessary. He steeled himself against the pleas and sobs, and in time his heart hardened and he no longer heard them.

And, to his credit, the child had grown stronger. He had always been adept at his studies; that had been evident from his earliest days at school. But he had not allowed him the luxury of praise, but had continually pushed him to work harder, do better. The boy had responded to his firm encouragement and gradually his fighting skills had improved.

He discovered that Wesley had a keen aim, despite his imperfect eyesight, and had watched the boy's prowess with a crossbow with secret, undisclosed admiration. But his gentle nature was still there though, he preferred to defend rather than attack. And so he pushed him harder, was deliberately rough with him during their training sessions. Waiting for Wesley to push back. He never did, of course. He would not have dared.

He carried his case downstairs, set it by the double doors that led into the entrance porch. The afternoon sun was already fading; intricate stained glass panels in the door refracted the pale light. He followed a shaft of gold down the hall to the cupboard door. His hand hovered over the deadbolt, long unused. He had been strict, heavy-handed even, but he felt no remorse. He had only done what had been necessary.

He opened the cupboard door and unhooked his raincoat from the back of the cupboard. Not that rain was particularly likely in Los Angeles. He detested California in general; that city in particular. 'A Godforsaken hellhole' was how he had referred to it during one of his brief infrequent telephone conversations with his disgraced child. He remembered the occasion; Wesley had defended himself rather ably, daring to answer him back; his arguments cogent and well reasoned.

'Where better, Father, to fight demons, than a Godforsaken hellhole?' 

You couldn't argue with logic like that. The boy had a backbone after all.

Raincoat in hand, he made his way to the kitchen and through there into the pantry, where Eleanor was trimming rose stems. She set down the secateurs and turned to face him. She had aged gracefully; was still as beautiful as the first day he had been introduced to her. Her golden hair was now laced with white, but her blue eyes were still as vivid as irises.

'Time I was off, my dear' he kissed her softly on her pale cheek; felt her tremble.

'Do you think we could have done more?' she asked, her voice very quiet. 

He stepped back, looked into her bright blue eyes.

'You know as well as I there were other forces at work here. There always have been.'

She nodded, but seemed unconvinced. 

' We were so hard on him. Perhaps was should have….' He stopped her; pressed his finger lightly to her lips.

'No. No regrets. We did what we thought was best. He made his choices.'

He held her again; tenderly kissed her trembling lips. He hated this. Hated lying to her. You would think it would have been easy; he had been doing it all these years. And yet something still twisted in his heart.

'Goodbye, my dear. I'll telephone you when I arrive at the hotel.'

He had not aged so gracefully, he realized wryly, as a twinge in the muscles at the base of his spine reminded him of his advancing years. He shifted in his seat, as the stewardess hurried forward to offer him yet another complimentary drink. He was glad he had allowed Travers to persuade him to travel first class. A man after his own heart, he mused, sipping the eighteen year old Glenfiddich malt appreciatively. Quentin Travers understood about sacrifice.

They had sent Wesley to Sunnydale, fully aware he was not ready to cope with not one, but two rebellious slayers, as well as one exceedingly pissed off ex-watcher. Setting him up to fail. Which he did, of course, with depressing regularity.

But he had trained Wesley well, and as time passed he saw evidence of a firm resolve; a desire to do that which was right. It landed him in trouble; in hospital more than once; yet he did not give up. He did not give up on Faith, despite the torture he endured at her hands. Somewhere inside her he had seen someone worth saving. He had seen something in the vampire; his soul, his remorse, and had stood by him. And that same resolve to do right had resulted in this current situation.

Another long pull of the mellow liquid warmed his chest, and he closed his eyes briefly, silently mourning his lost son. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to feel anything. Not love, not hate, not anger. He had placed destiny and justice above all else. And now, with these fulfilled, he wasn't sure if he would ever feel again.

Perhaps that was why he was doing this. To prove to himself that he had done the right thing. 


	5. No Cold Medium

TITLE : Present Imperfect

AUTHOR : Eloise

RATING : PG13

DISCLAIMER : Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. (Well, maybe just a little.)

NOTES : Chap 5 of 11. This chapter contains lines of dialogue from the final scene of 'Couplet'. You know, the one where Wes translates the prophecy and his world falls apart… Also  a couple of lines from 'Loyalty'. Title and quote are from 'The Iliad of Homer' Book ix by Alexander Pope.

Chapter 5 : No Cold Medium

"A generous friendship no cold medium knows,

Burns with one love, with one resentment glows."

The office was dark, smelling of old books, cedar wood, and very faintly of bergamot. He eyed the little tea set that Wes had favoured; briefly imagined smashing it piece by piece, grinding it to powder under his heel. He didn't, though. That would only cause more concern, more worried whispered conversations when they thought he was not listening. He could hear them now in the lobby, discussing his actions; wondering whether to call Cordelia and ruin her holiday with the news that Connor was gone, and her two best friends were now mortal enemies. He imagined she would not be best pleased.

He realized now, too late, that she had been part of the problem. He had been so caught up in his feelings for Cordy; his jealousy of the Groosalugg, that he hadn't noticed Wesley falling apart. He stretched his fingers out over the worn desktop, and closed his eyes.

'Working late?' 

Wesley looked deep in thought, and jumped a little when he appeared at the office door.

'Yes.' He hitched a breath 'You startled me.'

He snuggled Connor close 'Ah, we didn't mean to.' He addressed Wesley, but his eyes never left his son's tiny form.

'I thought I was alone.' He didn't notice then how Wes had carefully folded his hands over the books he was working on. Saw nothing but his perfect child.

'So did I.' But not any more he had thought, kissing his baby's soft cheek. 

That was how he had missed it. He had seen how rough, how tired Wes had looked, had even commented on it. But he had been so wrapped up in Connor that he had believed the pathetic excuses that Wes had offered. Ironically, he had been so absorbed in his baby that he had failed to heed the warning signs; had not wanted to acknowledge that anything was wrong. And now Connor was gone.

The door of the office opened, and Fred peered round it apologetically.

'Angel, there's some stuff you should see. I managed to access Wesley's email account…'

'No! I don't want to know. Get out.' His voice was little more than a growl.

Amazingly, the little Texan stood her ground. Tipped her chin up defiantly.

'You listen, Angel. You're hurting, and we understand that. Connor's gone…' She faltered then, blinked furiously behind her glasses. 'But if you want to stand any chance of finding him, you need to stop sitting around brooding about revenge and read these damn emails!'

He was so surprised at her audacity that he stood up and took a step towards her. Her eyes betrayed her fear, but she held her ground, lifted her chin a fraction more.

'It's up to you.'

He swept past her.

'Fine. Show me.'

He sat down at the laptop she had set up in the outer office area, ignoring the startled looks from Gunn and Lorne. Fred leant over his shoulder; her fingers moving across the keyboard with astonishing alacrity. Suddenly the screen changed, and a list of email addresses appeared in the right hand corner of the monitor. Fred scrolled down and finally clicked on one, dated a couple of days before Wes had taken Connor.

From: RGiles

To: WWP

Re  'phone call of 25th

Bad news, I'm afraid, Wesley. I've gone through the copy of the prophecy you sent quite thoroughly. Your translation was, unfortunately, excellent. I can see no other alternative than the course of action we talked over on the 'phone.

 I've contacted our friends in Devon, and they're more than willing to offer you and the child sanctuary, while we work out whether you've managed to thwart the prophecy. I think, though, Wesley, that you will have to prepare yourself for the possibility that you may never see Angel again.

I've sounded out the council, unofficially, you understand, about the prospect of paid consultancy work. It seemed they really are quite desperate for good researchers. Perhaps if they didn't keep firing them… However, I digress. The Coven have instructed me to advise you to place a protection spell around Connor when you _move _him. Seems like a sensible course of action, I suppose. They've set one up for you that includes a locator clause. You'll need to attach it to a talisman and make sure the child is wearing it. So something small, perhaps a locket or a ring.

I don't need to remind you, Wesley, how dangerous this will be. Please take every precaution not to allow Angel to discover what you are planning. I agree that the baby can't remain in his care, but he certainly won't see it that way. And you are doing the right thing. For Angel, as well as his son. To have an innocent's blood on your hands is a terrible thing. For it to be your own child… Angel would never recover.

I know I'm not telling you anything you don't know already, but these things need to be said. Take care of yourself, and I'll see you in a few days.

Giles.

He did not move. For minutes after he had finished reading, he was immobile, trying to absorb fully the contents of the email. Wes had truly believed he was going to kill his baby. How could he think that he would ever harm him? He would never, never, and then suddenly it hit him. Nuzzling Connor; drinking in the sweet scent of him, drunk with happiness. He smelled like…..food. 

Wesley's face, staring up at him, eyes wild, whispering something under his breath.

'Fire, earthquake, blood…'

'At least I would have something to snack on'

He closed his eyes slowly, and the image of his friend formed before him. Wesley had been barely able to meet his eyes as he had kissed his son goodbye. He had betrayed him; given the child to his mortal enemy, the man who had the best reason in the world to hate.

Only now that didn't seem to be true. According to Giles, Wes had planned to take Connor himself, seeking sanctuary in England. And this spell, if it had worked – he jabbed frantically at the mouse, trying to open the document that Giles had attached to his message.

'Fred, dammit! Open this for me!' He stood up, and allowed her to slide into his seat. Her long fingers flickered over the keyboard and suddenly it was there. The other two men were beside him now; leaning in to see what was on the screen. A few moments later, Fred stood up and went to the printer. She retrieved the sheet and handed it to him silently.

'What – what is it?' Lorne finally spoke, his voice breathless.

'A spell. A sanctuary spell for Connor. To protect him…' his own voice cracked slightly ' from me.'

'Let me see that, sugar,' Lorne scanned the sheet quickly, then nodded. 'Your standard protection spell – not permanent, though. And this part here…' he indicated several lines at the bottom of the page ' has been added on. It's not part of the protection spell'

Angel snatched the sheet back. 

'The locator clause…'

Fred was already ahead of him ' This means Connor's safe, right?' She looked at the others for confirmation. 'Right? And the locator thingy, couldn't we use that to find him?'

Lorne leaned in again to read over his shoulder, then addressed Fred. 

'Hate to spoil your party, sweetie, but protection spell. Operative word  - protection. And what was Wesley trying to protect against? Poppa Bear here going psycho and using Connor as a between-meals snack.' 

The growl was out of him before he could stop it.

'I'm sorry, Angel-face, but there it is. Wesley is nothing if not thorough. There is no way he would have set up the spell so that you could access it.'

Something Lorne had said previously stuck in his mind. 'It's not permanent… it won't last! Lorne, we don' t have much time. You've got to find someone who can decode this spell. I can try Giles.'

Fred shifted slightly behind him. 'We could ask…'

'No!' he snarled, almost morphing into full game face. 'Don't say it, Fred. He doesn't exist any more.'

She backed down this time, her previous bravado gone. Gunn moved to stand between them.

'Okay, man, we get it. No Wesley.'

He nodded swiftly, and strode past them into the office, closing the door firmly behind him.


	6. A Desolate Habitation

TITLE : Present Imperfect

AUTHOR : Eloise

RATING : PG13

DISCLAIMER : Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. (Well, maybe just a little.)

NOTES : Chap 6 of 11. I really appreciate all the lovely feedback I've been getting – it's spurred me on to try and get these next chapters typed up! 

I know the story seems a little obtuse at times, but in the words of Wesley ('Blind Date') – 'There is a design. Hidden in the chaos it may be, but it's true!'

Title and quote for this chapter come from Acts Ch.1 v.20 (King James Version)

Chapter 6 : A Desolate Habitation

"For it is written in the book of Psalms,

Let his habitation be desolate,

And let no man dwell therein."

He measured the passage of time in meals. Regular as clockwork and uniformly dreadful, they tasted as if they had been prepared by someone determined to free up hospital beds by systematically poisoning their present occupants. However, lacking any other available method, Wesley used the arrival of each repast as an indicator of the length of his stay in hospital. He guessed he was on day three by now.

It wasn't as if he hadn't been here before. The nurses had chided him, (gently, of course), that they didn't give frequent flyer miles for patient loyalty. One had even joked that they were thinking of naming a trauma room after him. Which might have seemed considerably funnier if he hadn't just spent several hours bleeding to death in the park next to his house, before being smothered by his best friend.

But it was different this time. Not just the being smothered by Angel part, which had been frankly terrifying. There had been no tunnel, no bright light, no overwhelming feeling of peace accompanied by a distant angelical chorus. There had only been pain and darkness, and then being snatched back into the world so hard it had hurt his chest. He had opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by hospital staff. They had been concerned, efficient, but ultimately strangers. Not one of his friends remained. This time he was alone.

'What did you expect, Wesley? You stole his child." He thought he had prepared himself; had accepted that he would be outcast. He had spent so many years alone, and then suddenly, unexpectedly, he had found acceptance, a family, something approaching love. The voice in his head reproached him scornfully. 'Uh-uh, Wesley, you wanted that too much.'

He swallowed, and a razor blade of pain slid down his throat. The morphine in his self-medicating drip was strong, welcoming oblivion, and it took all his effort to stay focused on the here and now. He gazed at the pockmarked ceiling tiles, and tried not to think of a tiny dark head, soft blue eyes, a flashing blade.

A nurse entered his room, wheeling a cabinet of meds. She checked the chart at the foot of his bed, and began to disconnect the empty drip.

'A little more morphine, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce?' He shook his head slightly, and managed to whisper no. He wanted to stay lucid; didn't care about the pain. She came closer to him; laid her cool hand across his own.

Something familiar in her touch transported him back to a memory from childhood. Another time, another country, another hospital. He had fallen during a fencing lesson with his father, and landed awkwardly, breaking his forearm and collarbone. He had to stay in hospital for a week, and his father had been insistent that Wesley should thole his injury, not become dependent on painkillers. Always obedient, he had lied about the pain to the doctors, and spent the first part of the night in barely managed agony.

And then she had come, a pretty dark haired angel, and placed her hand on his. When she touched him, the pain seemed to lessen, and he had been able to sleep for a while. She had watched over him that week in hospital, and he had adored her with a ferocity borne of desperation.

He opened his eyes and studied her intently. Soft dark curls framed an elfin face, reminding him briefly of Virginia. Her eyes were a warm brown, shot with emerald, and filled with compassion. He felt a sudden shock of recognition. This was the same nurse. He was absolutely sure of it, despite the obvious impossibility of such an assertion. The same woman, over twenty years later, and she had barely aged a week.

He attempted to speak, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

'If you're my guardian angel, I'd say your timing was rather poor.' She smiled at that, shook her head a little, curls bobbing.

'I'm guessing not the ghost of Florence Nightingale, either.' This elicited another smile and she spoke for the first time.

'You didn't used to have such a smart mouth, Wesley.'

He eyed her levelly. 'People change. Well, not you, evidently. But then, you're not exactly people, are you?

'Not exactly.' He noticed the locket that hung around her neck, then remembered Anyanka, and her disastrous attempts to locate a similar amulet. Back in Sunnydale, a lifetime ago.

'Vengeance demon…' he whispered

'Justice demon,' she corrected him gently.

His mind whirred, trying to access information he had gathered on justice demons during that time.

'I thought you only worked for humans.' She looked non-plussed.  

'Generally speaking, yes.'

'But Angel…' He saw realization dawning, her eyes widening.

'You think I'm here to punish you?'

' Isn't that the general idea? Right the wrongs that have been done?'

Her eyes were liquid with unshed tears. ' Not by you. To you.'

He might have laughed, if his throat hadn't hurt so badly.

'You think I want vengeance? For this?' He closed his eyes briefly, imagined a world where he had not taken Connor, not had his throat slit, not had the life smothered out of him. 'What's the point? What's done is done, cannot be undone.'

'It's not always about Angel, you know,'

He allowed himself a small wry smile. 'Better not let him hear you saying that.' 

Then he realized what she meant, the implications, and for a moment he was so angry he couldn't breathe.

'You knew. When I broke my arm… you _knew.'_

Her guilt was confirmed as she looked away.

'You knew, you saw what it was like. You could have helped me.'

She shook her head. 'I couldn't. I wanted to…'

He didn't want to listen to her excuses, the reasonable reasons why it was not possible. It simply confirmed what he had secretly believed all his childhood. The man was omnipotent, a member of the inner circle of the Council, maintaining the balance between good and evil. And now it seemed, with the power to ward against demonic forces.

'You were protected,' she mumbled, her face flushed with shame.

'Funny, I didn't feel particularly protected!' He thought he saw her recoil at the scorn in his voice, but he didn't care. 'Why now? Why come back now?' To see how far he had fallen, how well he had lived down to his father's expectations. His head hurt, and the wound at his neck prickled.

'I never stopped watching you,' She spoke so softly he almost couldn't hear her. Didn't want to hear her. 

'Leave me alone.'

She stretched out to touch his hand again, and he deliberately moved it out of her reach. He closed his eyes, almost petulantly, a small boy withholding affection. Not a particularly effective weapon, he had discovered as a child, in a home where displays of affection were frowned upon, where any physical contact was generally disciplinary in nature. Painful, but marginally preferable to being locked below the stairs, ignored and forgotten, the darkness consuming him completely.

He suddenly hated her for making him visit these places again.

'Get out. I don't want your help now.'

She was blinking back tears, and he was surprised at how good it felt to hurt her.

'Just leave.'

 She nodded, and moved towards the door. ' It's not over, Wesley. I know you're angry, and you have every right to be, but we're not finished.' She turned back as she exited the room

'And for what it's worth, I am sorry.'

The doctors pronounced him fit to leave at the end of the week, and if he was honest he was glad to leave. The bustle and hum of the busy hospital only served to emphasize his isolation. She had not spoken to him since he had yelled at her, but he knew she was responsible for the clean clothes that appeared by his bed on the morning he was to be discharged. She had also arranged the taxi to his flat, he thought, as he paid the driver and carefully avoided looking at the park across the street.

He was already on the first floor when he realized something was not right. The door of his apartment was unlocked and from behind it he could hear music; the painfully beautiful, haunting dischords and resolutions reminding him of home, of the Gregorian chants his mother had favoured.

He stood at the door of the flat, wondering how to defend himself if Angel had come to finish what he had started in the hospital. She had said it wasn't over, and he was beginning to wish he had taken her offer of help more seriously. He was still weak, and Angel had paternal rage and demonic strength on his side. He didn't fancy his chances if the vampire had organized a welcome home reception. 

He felt in the pockets of the jacket she had provided, and was relieved to find a small wooden cross. That at least was a start. He opened the door quietly and stepped into the fading daylight of the apartment.

The blinds were drawn, but the man who stood in the shadow of the bookcase was considerably shorter than the vampire. There was a sudden hiss of breath, accompanied by a smash, as a tumbler of whisky slipped from the intruder's grasp, and met an untimely end on the hardwood floor. Wesley watched the liquid seep between the boards, then looked again at his uninvited guest. The man recovered his composure; stepped out from the shadows.

'Hello, Wesley,'

Wesley set down his bag, and pushed the door closed with his foot. He had truly thought things couldn't get any worse. And here he was, wrong again.

'Hello, Father.'


	7. The Fire in the Distance

TITLE : Present Imperfect

AUTHOR : Eloise

RATING : PG13

DISCLAIMER : Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. (Well, maybe just a little.)

NOTES : Chap 7 of 11. A big thank you to all who have reviewed – it makes my day! (Makes me type quicker, too!) This chapter features some dialogue from the Buffy ep "Lover's Walk". Halfrek's final line is from "Older and Far Away". That line actually inspired this whole fic!

Holtz quotes a couple of lines from "Home-Thoughts, from Abroad" by Robert Browning. Title and quote this time are from "The Seed and the Sower" by Laurens van der Post. 

Chapter 7 : The Fire in the Distance

" Ride, ride through the day, 

  Ride through the moonlight,

  Ride, ride through the night. 

  For far in the distance, burns the fire

  For someone who has waited long."

Damn him!

He slammed the receiver down so hard it threatened to fracture; sprinkling the wooden surface with tiny shards of plastic, embedding themselves in his palm. He couldn't get hold of Giles anywhere. The contact number they had for him in Bath was unanswered, as was Buffy's number in Sunnydale. He had even tried the Magic Box, thinking that Anya at least would be there and could give him some clue as to Giles' whereabouts, but with no luck. Evidently Sunnydale was having its own problems, which was unsurprising, considering it was a hellmouth, but he couldn't afford to think about that now. Connor was his priority now, and what he needed was Watcher senior to help him access the spell.

A nasty thought formed at the back of his mind. That Giles had heard what had happened to Wesley and was on his way to L.A. at this moment. Giles held no great love for him; the long hours they had spent together in his mansion prior to his re-ensouling had ensured that. If he knew that he had attacked Wesley, then the likelihood of receiving his help in locating Connor was very small.

Damn him! Damn them both and the Council of bloody Watchers all to hell!

He should never have allowed him to get so close, he realized now. They had travelled far since Wesley's arrival in L.A., that painfully eager to please young Englishman, whose self deprecation had almost, but not quite, hidden a quiet courage and resolve. From a brief period of hero worship, moving to friends, and finally to family.

An image flashed into his mind. Cordy's apartment, the three of them seated in her tiny kitchen. Wes, his glasses lost in the explosion, looking strangely small and vulnerable. It had brought out the mothering instinct in Cordelia, who had practically force-fed him sandwiches and tea. When Wes had finally figured out what the Shanshu prophecy meant, Cordy had all but danced around the table with glee. With Wes the joy was more subdued, but it was still there; the eureka face and then that rare wide smile. Angel himself had tried to play it down, but hadn't quite been able to hide his delight. And at that moment they were as close as they had ever been.

In his two hundred and fifty years of unlife he'd had few friends. Darla had been a partner, a lover, an equal, but ultimately in it for herself. Until the end, of course, when she had sacrificed herself to save their child. But she was never one to throw herself on a stake for a friend.

Dru was more of a caged bird, a strange exotic creature, whose capacity for passion and cruelty knew no bounds. And Spike, well, the younger vampire could barely contain his hatred of his grandsire. No, he wouldn't call Spike a friend.

Buffy. She had given him a purpose; a will to live. She had been his saviour, his passion, and ultimately his downfall. Strangely enough it had been Spike who had hit the nail on the head.

'You'll fight, and you'll shag, and you'll hate each other till it makes you quake, but you'll never be friends.'

The events surrounding the Mayor's ascension had confirmed that. He had been the one to break it; and at that time he had thought nothing could ever hurt as much as that.

In L.A., away from Buffy, he had begun to build a new life. Doyle had accepted him for what he was, and he had discovered a friend. Then the half demon had betrayed him, thrown away their friendship in a selfless act of love and sacrifice. Cordelia and he had clung together, united in their grief for one loved and lost. At one time she had been his friend. But somewhere along the way something had changed. She had crept into his heart, an ache that would not dull. Not a friend now.

Wesley had been different. They had become more brothers than friends. And he could not believe that this man, his friend, his _brother, would betray him so cruelly. That he himself would take pleasure in inflicting pain on the Englishman._

' I found someone.' Lorne stood in the doorway. 'She'll need something belonging to Connor to access the locator spell.'

'Fine.' His voice was a low growl. Yet still the demon lingered uncertainly between the office and the reception area.

'You're sure about this?'

Angel stood up, fought the urge to smash his fist into the wall quite successfully.

'What?'

'This locator spell.' Lorne paused. 'It was set up to protect the peanut from you. That's some seriously dark mojo, Angelface.'

'Do I look like I give a damn?' he hissed. Lorne obviously concluded that he didn't and continued quietly.

'Oo – kay. I better tell you though, the word's out about Connor. This little spell caster came looking for me. And I wouldn't trust this lady as far as she could throw me.'

'Well, let's hope we don't have to test that theory.' 

He strode past Lorne, into the outer office area. The stranger stood by the couch in the lobby, her back to him. She was as short as Fred, dressed in a simple silk blouse and suede skirt. She sensed his approach, and turned, shoulder length curls framing a strongly veined demonic visage. He had a sudden feeling of deja-vu, of having met this demon before.

'You can help me find my son?'

She nodded sharply, unzipped a small suede handbag, and began to extract the contents.

'If you wish it.' Her voice was rasping, harsh by nature, though not without pity.

'I do.'

"Very well. I will need something of the child's.'

He went to the bassinet in the reception area and lifted the clouded fleece blanket; almost doubling over in pain as the scent of his baby enveloped him.

'That will do fine.' She spread the blanket on the floor of the lobby. 'Kneel beside the blanket,' she instructed.

He obeyed, watching her as she sprinkled a glittering violet powder over the fleece. It floated in mid air, as if suspended in water. She began to chant the Latin he recognized as the locator clause of the spell .As she chanted, the powder began to whirl around the little blanket, glowing violently. First violet, then a soft gold, and finally a deep startling bright blue. She completed her chanting and the powder dropped on to the clouds below, returning to its original purple hue. She leaned forward and scooped up a handful of powder.

'Close your eyes.'

He did as she bid him; felt her lean closer to him; sensed her hand above his head.

'Open.' She whispered. The powder was released; it floated on to his head, settling on his eyelids, nose, lips.

He was no longer in the lobby. He was outdoors, the gentle sunshine somehow not turning him to dust. He smelled newly mown grass and honeysuckle. He opened his eyes and found himself in a small copse of oak and sycamore trees, all older than him. Not a hell dimension, then.

He heard a slight movement; turned to see Holtz cradling a tiny bundle in his arms. He reached out to touch his baby's cheek, forgetting that this was not real, just a vision. His hand passed though the child's body as if he were a ghost. Then he heard a chuckle.

'I suppose we have your Uncle Wesley to thank for this' Holtz was examining a plain gold signet ring, which had been carefully sewn into Connor's vest. This was it, the talisman that Wes had used to protect Connor.

'Now, I wonder where Uncle Wesley was planning to take you?' Holtz mused. 'Somewhere safe, I expect. Not California. Perhaps home?' He whispered something under his breath. 

 'Oh, to be in England, now that April's here…'

It was getting dark much too quickly, and with horror he realized the vision was fading.

'No! It's not enough! I didn't get to see where he was…' He was almost sobbing with fury and anguish. Fingertips touched his eyelids softly

'Open.' She commanded.

It was dark this time, and without sound. He could make out a figure in the gloom; his hand extended; palm upraised. Nestling in his palm was the same signet ring. It appeared to glow, first gold, shifting to violet, and changing again to blue. The brightness of the ring illuminated the face of the man holding it. The blue of his eyes matching the ring.

"NO!' He roared, as the vision disappeared and he returned to the hotel lobby. The demon was already gathering the discarded powder; folding the fleece carefully, and placing it on the couch.

'There wasn't enough time! You've got to do the spell again!'

She shook her head firmly.

'I can't help you any more. There's a limit to my powers.' She rezipped the bag and turned to face him squarely. ' You want to find your son?' he nodded desperately. 'Then you'll have to ask _him.'_

He couldn't. (You're a dead man, Pryce, a dead man.) Would not ask him.

'It's up to you, Angel,' She echoed Fred's earlier words. She lifted the bag and walked up the steps of the lobby.

'Wait!' He called, unsure of what it was he wanted to know. 'Why – why did you help me?'

She fixed him with a long hard look.

'Let's just say I'm taking care of business.'

And she was gone.


	8. The Lamb

TITLE : Present Imperfect

AUTHOR : Eloise

RATING : PG13

DISCLAIMER : Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. (Well, maybe just a little.)

NOTES : Chap 8 of 11. Once again, thanks for reviewing  - I have the next chapter completed on paper, and the draft notes for chaps 10 and 11. I'll do my best to upload as quickly as possible, but there may be a break for a few days while I complete the final chaps!

Title and quote this time from the poem "The Lamb" by William Blake – I've been listening to the Tavener setting of this piece as a 4–part unaccompanied harmony – again another inspiration for this fic!

Chapter 8 : The Lamb

"Little lamb, who made thee?

 Dost thou know who made thee?

 Little lamb, I'll tell thee,

 Little lamb, I'll tell thee:

 He is called by thy name

 For He calls Himself a Lamb."

He did not look particularly older, he thought. He had not been home in three years and his father looked much the same as when Wesley had left to take up his position in Sunnydale. He had returned to the family home in Hampshire to bid farewell to his parents before leaving for America. The occasion had been stiff and formal; his father unable to express any emotion other than the hope that Wesley would not disappoint them. He left the 'again' unspoken, but Wesley heard it in the stern tone of his voice, saw it in his father's eyes.

He knew for certain he himself had changed since that meeting, and not just his physical appearance. He had grown older, stronger and even a little wiser, he had thought. So why now did he feel the same inadequacy he had felt as a small boy, continually failing to meet his father's requirements of him?

'Forgive my surprise, Wesley, but I wasn't expecting you. I'd been informed you had died.' Not a trace of emotion in the older man's voice.

'Sorry to disappoint, Father, but reports of my death have been wildly exaggerated.' He was shocked at his own bravado, his voice still little more than a rough whisper. His father was surprised too; the widening of his eyes and the twitch of his palm tightening into a fist confirmed that.

As a boy, such audacity would have had painful consequences. Answering back was not tolerated; his father was a firm believer in the old adage "Children should be seen and not heard". Then again, as a boy, Wesley would never have dared to speak to his father that way. 

The other man studied him carefully.

'I'd watch your tongue, if I were you, my boy. You'd do well to remember to whom you are speaking.'

He was not likely to forget. This was James Wyndam-Pryce, one of the Council elite, specializing in vampire lore and research. He was also an expert in medieval weaponry, and an excellent swordsman, wielding a blade with deadly accuracy. He truly was his father's son, striving to excel in the disciplines his father favoured; yet never quite managing to live up to his standards. A fact of which his father never tired of reminding him. 

Even now, well into his sixties, the man looked well able to handle a sword. He had never bested his father during all those years of fencing practice, and he wondered idly if the older man could take him now. Remembering his recent wound, he rather supposed he could. He couldn't help the bitter smile that accompanied that thought.

'Something amusing, boy? Do share the joke, please.'

The glib politeness of his request did not completely mask the underlying menace in his tone. Wesley had learned to fear that tone much more than a raised voice; the icy sarcasm that usually signalled his father's fury, that turned his stomach to liquid, his legs to jelly.

'It's nothing, sir. Would you…. like some tea?' Inwardly he cursed himself for his cowardice.

'Tea would be pleasant.'

He filled the kettle in the small kitchen and spooned tea into the china pot by the stove. A wave of dizziness and nausea swept over him, and he gripped the edge of the worktop for support. Not now, he thought, please don't let me pass out now.

'Are you quite well, boy?'

He steadied himself, took a deep breath. 'Just a bit dizzy, that's all. I'll be fine in a moment.'

'Perhaps you'd better sit down and take a rest. I'm quite capable of making tea.'

He did not recognize this man, who spoke with concern in his voice. Tea was brought; placed on the low table in front of his armchair. His father seated himself on the couch opposite, balanced his own cup on the arm.

'Come along, boy, drink up.' 

Again he obeyed, not trusting himself to speak. With horror he realized he was suddenly and inexplicably close to tears. As a child he had cried too easily, a fault which had infuriated his father, and which he had determined to correct early on. Evidently he had been unsuccessful. He blinked quickly and took a sip of tea. It was hot and much sweeter than he was used to, but he drank it obediently, managing to stem the flood of tears that had threatened to well up.

'How are you feeling?'

The question was simple, asked without malice, it seemed, and he answered truthfully.

'I'm tired, Father. You said you were told I had died?' His father nodded. 'Can I ask … how did you find out?'

'The hospital rang. I spoke to a nurse.'

Of course. She had told him it wasn't over. She had set this up somehow, but he wasn't sure why.'

'What did she tell you?'

'That you'd been attacked. Your throat had been cut and you'd lost a lot of blood. They did their best to save you.' Still no emotion, his father spoke the words as if reading them from a script.

'I'm afraid that's not the full story.' 

And he related his version of recent events, up to and including Angel's attack in the hospital. When he had finished, he looked over at his father.

'So as you can see, I've made rather a mess of things' He said it before the other could; he didn't think he could stand to hear what a failure he was again.

'Mmm.' A non-committal sound, neither confirming nor contradicting his assessment.

'You were a fool to trust the woman, Justine, was it?' 

He could not argue with that.

'Yes, sir.' He closed his eyes, waited for the lecture to begin, his various failings singled out and discussed at length. The same lecture he'd been hearing for over twenty-five years; often accompanied by a more physical expression of his father's displeasure.

'You thought the vampire was going to kill the child, yes?' He nodded, suddenly unable to speak. 'Then you had to take him away. That was the only logical, ethical choice.'

To him it was simple, a question of right and wrong. Love and trust, betrayal and guilt, meant nothing, as Wesley had known they would.

'Perhaps I made a mistake in the translation of the prophecy."

 A ghost of a smile hovered on the edge of the older man's lips.

'You've made many mistakes in your life, Wesley, I can testify to that. But I'm afraid this time your assumptions were quite correct.' 

He spoke calmly, in that familiar lecturing style that Wesley recognized from childhood lessons. Himself, seated at a small wooden desk by the window of the study, frantically scribbling notes as his father explained some obscure but incredibly detailed ritual. As he grew older he discovered he had a talent for this, retaining information, sifting through it, and presenting it to his father. He tended to do better with written tests; had learned quickly the things which displeased his father; sloppy penmanship, incorrect grammar, errors in spelling and punctuation.

However, his nerves got the better of him when he was questioned on the subject. He would stammer his answers, infuriating his father as he tripped over the words. And the angrier he grew, the more tongue-tied Wesley became. It really was a vicious circle. The desperate desire to please the man always caused him to disappoint.

So he had gradually learned to cope, imitating this same lecturing style, the one that had so pissed off everyone in Sunnydale. Even now made Gunn and Cordy roll their eyes when he started in on one of his explanations. God, so much of what he was, this man had made him.

'Perhaps I could look at your translations?'

His father's request cut short his reverie. He rose stiffly; suddenly excruciatingly aware of how much his pain had been controlled in the hospital. He fetched the requested papers from the locked filing cabinet below his desk, and handed them to his father. He moved into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and took two of the painkillers the discharging doctor had so thoughtfully prescribed.

The knock at the apartment door was unexpected. He made his way slowly to the door and checked the peephole.

Of course. As if his life wasn't already a horrible enough mess, here was the man come to perfect his hell. He looked like it too, his eyes thunderous, dark as storm clouds, barely controlled fury evident in his fisted hands. And Wesley had not yet had time to revoke the invitation he had previously given the vampire to enter his home.

Bloody marvellous.

'Wes, I know you're home. They told me at the hospital. I'm not here to hurt you. I just need…' His voice cracked a little ' I need to talk to you about Connor.'

He opened the door and the vampire took a step back, pressing himself against the opposite wall. The air between them crackled, tension sparking like an electrical charge. Hurt, pain, justified anger, but most of all sorrow. A terrible aching sorrow, on both sides, he knew. He could not speak, nothing to do with the tight pain at his throat. There were just no words suitable for the situation. Their particular sins too great for simple apologies. They stood silent for moments, time expanding to occupy them wholly.

 It was Angel who spoke first.

'You were trying to protect him.'  As if the words were tearing him apart. ' I get that…'

Shame washed over him, he could not bear to look at the vampire.

'The protection spell, it worked…'

He jolted upright, a current running through his body.

'Connor, you found him?' He wanted so much for it to be true.

Angel shook his head, swiftly. 'Saw him. In a vision. The ring, it protected him. Took him to England, I think.'

Good God – Giles! He hadn't checked his messages since he'd arrived home. His heart was thumping wildly with hope. A chance, a tiny pinprick of light in this whole desperate mess. He moved to his answering machine, leaving Angel at the door of the flat. The message-received button was flashing red.

'Your vision – can you remember anything about the place where you saw Connor?  Landmarks, buildings, rivers, perhaps?'

'It was in the country. I saw Holtz holding him...' He paused.

Wesley pushed a button on the answering machine. 'What is it?

He turned to face Angel, but was suddenly sprawled on his back on the floor, the full weight of the vampire on top of him. The howl from his lips was truly blood curdling, a mixture of rage and despair.

'You – you bastard!'

Large hands closed around his damaged throat, the pressure firm enough to cut off air. So it had all been a trick. Angel meant to kill him after all. His eyelids drooped; he no longer had the strength to struggle against his fate. Felt his wound split open and weep; heard Angel's rants and sobs as if from a distance. He was about to slip into unconsciousness, until his father's voice, detached and cool, snapped him back.

'You would think by now, Wesley, after all your spectacular failures, that you would have learned something about prophecies. They have a way of happening, despite our best efforts to the contrary.'


	9. None So Blind

TITLE : Present Imperfect

AUTHOR : Eloise

RATING : PG13

DISCLAIMER : Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. (Well, maybe just a little.)

NOTES : Chap 9 of 11. You see, this is what happens when you review. I'd made up my mind to spend the evening working on Chap 10, and then I logged on to find all this gorgeous feedback in my inbox. So I relented, and decided to upload chap 9 instead. A big blushing thank you also for the lovely recs I received in the "Defenders of Wesley" Yahoo group. 

This chapter contains some dialogue from the eps 'Sleep Tight", "I've Got You Under My Skin" and "The Prodigal". Title and quote this time from Matthew Henry's Commentaries on Jeremiah xx.

Chapter 9 : None so Blind.

"None so blind as those that will not see"

He was dying, the demon in him shrieking to escape, stretching against the soul, as his hands squeezed his throat. It had all been lies, he had betrayed him, was still betraying him. He ignored the wide-eyed terror in Wesley's eyes, the look of confusion when the other man spoke.

"I see you haven't changed much, Angelus. Still killing the innocent." 

He growled and raised glittering yellow eyes to the other's icy glare.

'He's not innocent!'

'Oh, but he is. That's the best part of all of this. He is completely innocent.' The older Englishman smiled. 'I made sure of that.'

He suddenly didn't feel so sure now, lifted his hands from Wesley's throat. He rolled away, choking and gasping, but alive. He looked dazed, the bandage at his neck reddening with fresh blood.

You know my father?' His voice was painfully soft, he sounded incredulous. If Wes was faking this, he was one hell of an actor.

There was a soft laugh from the other Englishman, eliciting a tiny whimper from Wesley. He was terrified, Angel realized. Of what he wasn't completely sure.

He looked down and suddenly noticed the warm, sticky fluid, coating his chilled hands. An unexpectedly powerful scent assaulted his senses, sweetly and strangely familiar. He raised his fingertips and cautiously touched his lips.

He was abruptly transported back a week in time

'Connor, shut up!'

The others were staring at him, at the blood-spattered wall where he had hurled his glass. 

'What's wrong with me…something's not right…'

Then Fred had looked up from the microscope

'Well there's more to this pig's blood than meets the eye. There's just a trace of…'

'…human blood in it.' He finished for her. 'I can feel it …it's his.' A long moment passed, guilt and shame almost overpowering him. 'It's Connor's.'

What he had tasted now was impossible. Behind him, the older man laughed again.

'I should have guessed. You've tasted him.' There was a note of disgust in his mocking tone. 

Angel looked again at Wesley, who wore an expression of utter bewilderment.

'He never…I didn't…' He looked as if he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. ' Father, what did you do?' His broken voice cracked, the last word a desperate whisper.

'Are you addressing me, Wesley?'

God, what had he done to him; all those years of hate and resentment distilled down into a single, pure drive for revenge.

'Shall you tell him, or shall I, Angelus?'

Oh, how he hated that soft cold tone, hated the reaction it produced in the younger man.

'You sadist! He was a child, a _baby. How could you?'_

'I would have thought that was obvious. The sins of the father shall be visited upon the son.'

Angel thought his heart would shatter at these words.

'Tell me what?' Wes had gained more control over his voice; he was staring at his father with ill concealed anger. 'Father, did you take Connor?'

The other stared back arrogantly. 'I seem to remember it was you who did that, my boy.'

Angel saw how much that hurt.

'Please, father,' He was almost begging now ' Did you …hurt him?'

The older man's voice changed almost imperceptibly. ' I did what was necessary.' A tiny note of regret creeping in.

His words seemed to break Wesley. He drew his knees up to his chest and pressed his face into them. Angel could not bear it. He knelt carefully by him, attempted to draw the younger man to him. But Wesley refused his embrace, remained tightly bound, hands locked around his knees.

'No, Angel, don't. I let myself be tricked. He and Holtz must have been working together."

He shook his head gently, couldn't keep the sad smile off his lips.

'He made sure you wouldn't see.'

An agonized whisper. 'But Connor, he's gone…"

'No. He's been hurt. Badly.' Here he glared at the older man, then turned back to Wesley. 'But he's not gone. You're not the only one who couldn't see. I should have known, I should have sensed it.'

Again the look of bewilderment, dark blue eyes leaded with guilt.

'Tell me the name of that man over there.' Wesley looked at him as though he had lost his senses. 'Humour me, Wes.'

Wesley nodded slowly. 'My father, James Wyndam-Pryce.'

Angel shook his head a little. 'That's Daniel Holtz. A little older than the last time we met. But most definitely him'

Wesley's mouth framed a silent 'oh', struggling to come to terms with this revelation.

'But I'm…he's my father…I was named after his brother, my uncle…'

'Your Uncle Wesley?' He looked up at Holtz, who shrugged rather diffidently.

'It seemed appropriate.' 

He felt the younger man swallow, his heart beating wildly.

'I'm not his son, am I?' Terrified to meet his eyes.

Angel placed his hand on Wesley's shoulder. 

'You're my boy. My Connor.' 

He held back no longer, pulled him forcibly into a fierce embrace. Wesley let himself be held, but did not relax, remained rigid, as if in shock. Angel was afraid he would break his ribs if he truly held him as tightly as he needed.

'How touching.'

The sarcasm in Holtz's tone was unmistakeable; he felt his son's spine stiffen when the other spoke. He snarled, soft and low, tensed as a coiled spring.

'No.' Wes' voice, quiet and surprisingly firm, stopped him. 'Angel, I need to know.' He pulled away slightly from his embrace and looked deliberately at Holtz, something that was not quite anger in his dark eyes.

'You owe me that at least, _Father.'_

Angel was surprised how much power was contained in that particular word. For all of them. He had stolen Holtz's right to be called that when he had sadistically murdered the Englishman's children. And he had paid back in kind when he had taken Connor. To all intents and purposes Holtz had been Connor's father for the last thirty years. _Wesley's father._

'A father doesn't have to be possessed to terrorize his children, he just has to…'

He remembered those blue eyes dropping in shame, the taunts he had heard as Wesley had attempted to exorcize the Ethros demon. He really didn't want to imagine what Holtz had done to his son as punishment for his own crimes. That way lay madness, revenge, all the things that had driven Holtz to do the things he had done.

To Wesley. To _Connor_. He had held him in his arms, a lifetime ago, and had made a solemn promise to himself. That Connor would always be loved and supported; would never fear the wrath of an impatient, unyielding father. That he would have the childhood that he, Liam, had not. Holtz was right. The sins of the father were indeed visited upon the son. Despite all his hopes and promises, history had repeated itself. Rather vehemently.

'You used me. My whole life was just a way to get back at him.' Wes spoke softly, more in sorrow than anger, as though he couldn't quite believe it. 'All those lies…' he stopped abruptly, looked hard at Holtz. 'Did she know? Was she in on it?'

The older man shook his head. 'No.' He sounded wistful. 'I told her you were mine, that you were in danger in L.A., which wasn't exactly a lie…' He allowed himself a small smile.

'Shut up! You don't get to laugh about this!' 

From Holtz's shocked expression, Angel guessed he wasn't used to being thus addressed by his 'son'. This was a side to Wes that they didn't get to see often, the steely cold anger that he kept hidden inside him. The result of his upbringing, or perhaps something deeper, he now realized, a dark inheritance from himself and Darla.

'It's okay, Wes,' he said softly, resting his hand carefully on the other's shoulder. He shrugged him off, but the flash of anger was gone.

'He's right, Holtz. You owe him an explanation.' The hurt look on Wes' face made his heart ache in a way he had not believed possible. 'Please.' He whispered. He saw a look in Holtz's eyes then, not quite pity, something akin to regret.

'It wasn't planned. We tricked him, Justine was to cut his throat and steal the child. We were going to raise the boy as our own in Utah. Then Sahjhan intervened. It was only when I jumped into Quortoth and ended up in England that I realized there was a protection spell around Connor. I believe the time travel was a side effect of the temporal rift that Sahjhan had created.' 

He stooped for a moment, looked wistful.

'It was a beautiful place.'Angel remembered the warm touch of the sun on his skin and nodded faintly.

'I'd done a considerable amount of research on Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. I knew of his family background, his strong connections with the Watcher's Council. I had arrived near his family home in Hampshire, close to the Watcher's Academy. I knew I had information on Angelus that the Council would be desperate to have, so I began to seek out James Wyndam-Pryce. However, I could find no record of Wesley's father, or, for that matter, of any Wyndam-Pryce.

I did, on the other hand, gain a useful ally in an ambitious young watcher, Quentin Travers.'

He paused again, cleared his throat.

'We found a number of other commentaries on the Nyazian prophecies, ' Here he looked at Wesley pointedly. ' - None of which were ever made available to you. They all supported the idea that Connor would exist before he was born. I think both Travers and myself realized at the same time that Connor was Wesley, or Wesley was Connor. Once that was established, it was a simple matter of Travers introducing me to Eleanor Wyndam, and I became James Wyndam-Pryce.'

'Travers knew…' A look of horrified realization came over Wesley's face. 'Then it was a set-up – Sunnydale, Buffy, Faith…I was supposed to fail.'

'Of course. You didn't really think we chose you for your abilities, did you?'

He heard Wes' breath catch in his throat at the cruelty of the words

'I could have helped her….' He spoke almost to himself. 'What did she do to deserve that?'

'Ah, the rogue slayer. Regrettable, but necessary. That which does not destroy us makes us stronger, my boy. You were always too soft for your own good. We had to toughen you up.'

Wes rubbed his collarbone absently, and Angel had a sudden strong vision of him tied to a chair, his shirt bloody from Faith's attentions. So strong he could almost smell his son's blood.

'It worked, though. Brought out the best in you.' Holtz sounded almost proud. ' I only did what was necessary, boy.'

'For whom, Father?' That tightly controlled bitterness once again evident in his icy tone. 'For the council? For you, and your twisted desire for vengeance? For me, for my own good?' He spat the last phrase at Holtz, who at least had the grace to look ashamed.

'I _believed _you. In everything you taught me. I always tried my best, but I never quite managed to measure up. At least now I know why.'

Angel heard the tremors in Wesley's voice, breaking beneath the sarcasm.

'I was supposed to die. But I couldn't even do that right.'  He was waiting for Holtz to contradict him, desperate for his denial. The older Englishman remained silent.

And suddenly Wes was on his feet, moving across the apartment with surprising speed. He caught up with him as he reached the door.

'He's nothing, Wes.' Reached a hand out to touch his arm, hold him there inside the door, but this time Wesley slapped his arm away, hard.

'No! I can't… You don't understand…' He took a breath and let it out slowly. 'Let me go, Angel. Please.' 

His heart constricted at his quiet plea. (My boy, my lost boy.)

'Go.' He whispered, his voice husky, his throat coated with tears. Resisted the urge to grab him, hold him hard, never let him go.

He watched him disappear down the stairs, then swung back round to face the man who had stolen his child. Could find no words to express himself, so he settled for a hand around his throat. Holtz did not struggle, but gazed at him placidly, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. He seemed to be finding the whole situation extremely amusing.

'What,' He almost yelled, shoving him against the apartment wall, releasing the pressure on his neck ever so slightly, 'is so damned funny?'

'Your dilemma.'

Again the cool detached look, a sneer that made him want to smash the man's skull.

'You want to punish me.' Holtz spoke calmly, fully aware of the power of his words. 'I know that feeling.'

A small, unwelcome pang of guilt stirred within him. He had done this; Angelus' murder of the Englishman's children had been the catalyst for this chain of events

'You want to put your hands around my throat and choke me' 

God, yes, he wanted that so much, sweet vengeance.

'But you can't.'

'You really think I care about murdering you? I think my soul would survive it.'

'Oh, I expect it would. One more human, a flawed one, at that, wouldn't make much of a difference. But what about Wesley?'

'He'd probably thank me!'

This time Holtz actually laughed, a short derisive sound.

'You really don't know him at all, do you? Connor was your son, but Wesley is mine. I created his world, set the rules, trained him to follow where I led. He had spent his life trying to measure up, seeking my approval. Destroying me won't change a thing.'

Another time, another place, remembering his own father's death at his own hands. Darla's words haunted him as they had always done.

'The same love will infect our hearts, even if they no longer beat. Simple death won't change that.'

So the child truly was the father's son. Searching for love from a father who could never give it.

'A perfect revenge, really.' Holtz was so smug, so satisfied with himself that he considered snapping his neck anyway, to hell with the consequences. He pulled his hands back, and leaned in close to the other man's face.

'He doesn't need you. He became the man he is in spite of you.'

'I never took you for a fool, Angelus.' Holtz's face suddenly lost its sneer, and he saw some emotion flicker in the Englishman's eyes. 'I suppose I had the advantage, though. I saw the man your child would become. I knew his destiny. He became that man _because of me.' _

That couldn't be true. Angel stepped back, as the emotion in Holtz's voice intensified.

'You don't know him. You didn't even recognize him. At least Wesley had an excuse for not recognizing me – a simple dissembling spell saw to that.'

It hurt to hear these things.

'Do you even know what he did for you? He came to me, offered his life in place of yours. _That_ is the man I made!'

His words cut deep into Angel's soul, hearing the fierce pride in Holtz's voice and knowing that Wesley would never hear it.

'Get out, ' He growled softly. 'Leave my son alone.'

The older man lifted his raincoat, straightened his tie, and moved towards the door. He paused after opening it.

'You stole my children, vampire. You took my son from me and you made me kill my daughter.' He reached into his pocket and took out a small black velvet box; placed it carefully on the console table by the entrance. ' I will never forgive you for that. Never.' His eyes burned with controlled fury. ' Remember this, Angelus. Your son is mine. He'll always be mine.'

The door closed. His footsteps grew fainter and then he was gone. Angel moved to the table, and opened the little box. Touched the tiny gold ring, which nestled inside. Then bent his head and wept for his lost son.


	10. Interlude The Stolen Child

TITLE : Present Imperfect

AUTHOR : Eloise

RATING : PG13

DISCLAIMER : Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. (Well, maybe just a little.)

NOTES : Chap 10 of 11. Blame this chapter on the unseasonably clement weather. The sun is actually shining – it usually rains here in summer (and autumn, and winter, and spring!)

Blame it on the summer link I found at the lovely Angel Book of Days site. It took me to the title and quote for this Chap. – the W.B. Yeats poem "The Stolen Child". From there I headed to "The Lake Isle of Innisfree" Got me in a wistful poetic mood…

Blame it on Wesley – he made me do it!

Chapter 10 : The Stolen Child

"Come away, oh human child

To the waters and the wild

With a faery hand in hand

For the world's more full of weeping

Than you can understand."

He stretched his long legs out, felt the heat of late afternoon sun warm upon his face. In the park nearby, contented mothers watched their offspring toddle blithely in the play area. Kept a wary distance from the strange pale man with the heavily bandaged throat. He didn't really mind, though, was happy to close his eyes and let the heat of the day drift over him.

Squeals of laughter mingled with birdsong, and the lazy gentle hum of the bumblebee. The scent of honeysuckle was growing stronger as evening approached, and suddenly he could taste iron. His hand flew immediately to his neck, but the wound was still intact. A sense memory, he realized, a peculiar synaesthetic reaction to that particular perfume. Not surprising, considering the day's revelations.

He opened his eyes, discovering that the sun had bleached spots on his retina. He was twelve years old, lying in the long grass next to the river. The chalk stream meandered lazily through the village, its peaceful flow disturbed only by the gentle flick of a fly on the surface, either real, or some angler's delicate copy of nature. Something tickled his nose and he flinched; brushed his hand across his face. He glanced up and saw Simon, now seated next to him, pulling the heads off the rye grass and sprinkling them onto him.

'Get off me, Si.' He said affably, poking his friend in the ribs as he sat up. The sandy haired boy beside him grinned and shoved Wesley back. 

'Your Dad's away, then?'

Wesley nodded, couldn't keep the small smile of satisfaction off his face.

'Away all day on business.'

Simon knew that he would not be lazing by the river if his father were home. He did not know, and Wesley did not dare tell him, what line of business his father was in.

'So, what d'you want to do today?'

What Wes really wanted was to lie here, in the drowsy heat of summer and exist. Not train or study, just simply be. These rare days, when his father went up to London on Council business, were what he lived for. Term had finished a week previously, and much as he disliked boarding school, at least there he got some free time. If school was the hard place, then his father was most definitely the rock he was caught between. Innumerable translations and grammar tests filled up endless hours of his school holidays. When he wasn't studying, his father made him train in the various forms of combat and self-defence required by the Council. He had seized the opportunity today, completing the tasks set by him quickly, then begging his mother to let him play outside for a while. She gave in, as she always did when his father wasn't around, warning him only to be home before six.

'You deaf, Wes? What'll we do?' Wesley sighed; propped himself up on his elbows and squinted at Simon through the dappled sunlight that filtered through the oak leaves overhead.

'Whatever you like.'

Simon, a year older, was tougher, braver and more daring than he would ever be. Wesley wondered for the hundredth time why his friend could be bothered to notice him, let alone actually associate with him. Simon's mother was his parents' housekeeper, and Wesley suspected that she might carry home tales of his strict upbringing to keep her own rather unruly charge in check. And although Simon never mentioned it, he got an angry look in his eye when it was obvious that Wesley had been punished. It seemed to make him more determined to protect him when he could.

'Robin Hood? Come on, Wes, it'll be brill! We'll build a hut in the forest and make our own bows and arrows and everything.'

He had to admit, it didn't sound a bad way to pass a day. The other boy punched his arm impatiently; anxious to get started. Wes pulled himself to a sitting position, brushing grass seeds off his shirt.

'Okay. Just as long as I don't have to be Friar Tuck.' He deadpanned. His friend collapsed into a fit of giggles at this incongruous suggestion. 

'Yeah, 'cause you're sooo fat!'

The rest of the day was spent in the Sherwood Forest of their imagination, and it was not until Wesley felt a chill in the air that he realized it was getting late. The sun had moved in the sky, was now heading west with alarming velocity.

'Si, what time is it?' 

The other boy stopped sharpening the end of a homemade arrow and glanced at his watch.

'Just after half five. Why?' 

Wesley swung down from the branches of the tree he had hidden in.

''My dad'll be home at six. I've got to go.

Simon jumped down beside him, did not offer any protests. 'It's fine. If we go now, you'll be home well before six.'

They made their way out of the small copse of trees and followed the path along the riverbank. The early evening air was scented with woodbine from the honeysuckle bushes, which grew beside the stream.

There was a sudden movement in those bushes, and from them emerged four larger boys. Wesley recognized them from the village, older than them both by a couple of years. They attended the local secondary school along with Simon, and it was him they addressed first.

'What are you doing with the prep school swot, Cates?'

 Wes wisely resisted the urge to correct him as to his current place of education. He had left prep school a year ago, and was now firmly installed in the Watcher's Academy, twenty miles from the village.

'Come on, Henderson, leave us alone. We're not doing you any harm.' 

The boy who had spoken first took a step forward, pushing Simon out of the way. 

'Think you're too good for the likes of us, don't you, Wesley.' He emphasized the sibilants in his name, making it sound incredibly effeminate. 'Mummy and Daddy wouldn't like their little sissy mixing with the nasty rough boys.'

Wesley wasn't sure what he had done to deserve such vindictive spite, knew only where it would lead. He squared his shoulders, drew his slender frame to its full height. The other boy eyed him gleefully.

'Uh-oh, looks like sissy boy wants to fight!'

The blow came fast, hard and low, landed with such force in his kidneys that it made him want to throw up. He doubled up, hugging his middle, trying to regain some control over his breathing. Henderson gave a derisive laugh

'Don't follow Marquis of Queensbury rules here, Wesley!'

And then Simon was upon him, fists and feet flying. The force of his attack knocked the older boy to the ground, and they were rolling in the grass, each trying to gain the upper position, to batter their opponent into submission.

Through a haze of pain, Wesley noticed the other boys had moved closer to the combatants; in a flash they had Simon pinned by his arms and legs. Henderson took full advantage of their assistance, drew his hand back and began to pound his fists mercilessly, landing vicious jabs all over his friend's body. 

He did not think, did not pause to consider how ineffectual his support might be. He flung himself at Henderson, and pummelled his back with all his might. The older boy barely noticed, used a free hand to catch Wesley's shirt and throw him to one side. His head met a nearby tree root sharply, and he was enveloped in the scent of honeysuckle as his mouth filled with blood.

Stars exploded inside his head, some detached part of him imagined that this must be what the beginning of the universe had looked like. It was a bright, white heat; sending out sparkling arcs of light, the intensity of which he had never before experienced. He was consumed by the light; pain controlling him absolutely. He felt it move through his body like electricity, his raw nerve endings now lightning conductors. Somewhere, far off in the distance, he heard screaming. High-pitched, girlish yelping, and he only prayed it wasn't him.

'Wesley – Wes! Let him go…damn it, let him go!'

Simon was dragging him off Henderson, who was howling in agony. The other boys had backed off, palpably terrified by the frenzied attack they had just witnessed. Wesley realized with horror that the blood in his mouth was not only his own. Henderson held his fingers across the side of his neck, blood clearly visible on the collar of his shirt.

He had bitten him.

'Wesley, come on!' 

Simon was still pulling him roughly along the river path, his feet stumbling over themselves.

'Oh God, Simon! What did I do?' he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and stared at it in appalled fascination. His friend hauled him again, jolting his arm out of its socket.

'You bit him, Wes. Not like he didn't have it coming.' 

 Simon sounded as if he was trying to convince himself of that fact.

'Look, its after six. Your dad will be home. Just forget about Henderson. Okay?'

Wesley felt his heart thump against his ribcage.

'Si, I didn't mean to… you know that, right?' his friend nodded hesitantly, a certain ambiguity in the action.

'We don't have time for this. Wesley – your _father will be home!'_

The significance of this fact was finally dawning on him.

'God, Si. He's going to kill me.'

It was already dark when Simon left him at the front gate of the house, gave him the 'we the brave go forth to die' look. He pushed the back door open and crept into the scullery. Ran his bloodied hands under the cold tap, and soaked a crumpled handkerchief he had found in his trouser pocket. He attempted to clean the worst of the blood from his face, to conceal the evidence of his misconduct, but it was obvious when he caught sight of his reflection in the glass of the scullery door that such endeavours were futile. His lip was already swelling, and there was a cut on his cheek where his head had cracked on the tree root. His glasses were broken, one leg dangled at an odd lolling angle.

He scooped up a handful of water and drank it quickly, then wiped his damp hands through his unruly hair, trying to tame the spikes into some semblance of order. With one last glance at himself in the glass door, he made his way along the passageway that led through to the main entrance hall of the house.

He stopped uncertainly at the door of the dining room, pushed it cautiously with one finger. There was a quiet clink of fine silver on expensive china, as his father put down his fork.

'Ah, Wesley. You're aware of the time, I presume?' His voice was very calm and controlled.

Not a good sign.

'Yes, sir. I'm sorry I'm late.'

'I would like an explanation.' A pause. 'Now, please, boy.' There was steel in his tone.

'I… forgot the time.' It sounded pitiful, even to him. He swallowed, a lump about the size of a tennis ball in his throat. ' I am sorry, Father.'

'You will be, my boy. Of that have no doubt. You will go directly to my study and wait for me. When I have finished my meal we will spend some time correcting your behaviour.'

He returned to his meal again, a man used to being obeyed.

Wesley went into the study and flopped disconsolately in the leather armchair by the bookcase. He had been on the receiving end of his father's corrections on enough occasions to know that he would not be sitting comfortably any time soon. And when he found out that Wesley had been fighting… No, he did not want to imagine that. He rubbed his palm over the worn leather of the arm of the chair and wondered idly how far he would get if he ran away from home now, while his father was finishing dinner.

The shrill jangle of the telephone interrupted his thoughts. He heard his father come into the hallway to answer it. Could not make out the low conversation, but he had a nasty feeling that it had something to do with Henderson and the fight. There was a muffled click as the receiver was replaced. A silent wild prayer burned in his head. 'Please God let him be okay. I'll never do it again, I swear.'

'Wesley!'

His father did not shout, as a rule. He never needed to, was able to control his son with quiet commands and instructions. Which made it all the more terrifying to hear his roar now.

'Wesley! Come here this instant!'

He was on his feet and moving before he could think, so ingrained in him was it to obey that voice. He faltered when he saw his father's face. Fury etched in every line of his features; eyes ablaze with anger. Wesley saw something else beneath the rage and revulsion, some emotion he couldn't quite place.

'You _bit _him!' There was disgust in his tone.

'Father, I didn't mean to. There were four of them… they were hurting Simon, holding him down. I was only trying to…'

'You _bit_ him.'

 Wesley closed his mouth then, knew no explanation he could give would be acceptable.

'You…'

His father stepped back, actually moved away from him. Opened the cupboard door below the stairs.

'Get in there." He hissed, no longer yelling.

Wesley felt his knees tremble, felt his heart beat in the wound on his cheek.

'Please father, I'm sorry.' (Don't make me go in there. Not into the dark.)

'If you don't get in there now, boy, I will tie you up and throw you in!'

Wesley met his dark eyes and realized this was no idle threat. He was deadly serious. He backed into the tiny cupboard slowly, watching the man warily. His father did not look at him as he pushed the door shut, clicked the bolt firmly into place. There was the sound of footsteps, and the single line of light under the cupboard door, his last vestige of hope, was removed, as the hall light was turned off. It was only then that Wesley recognized the emotion he had read in his father's eyes. Under the anger and disgust, he had seen fear.

Time had no meaning in this place. Minutes became hours. He was always surprised, when his father let him out, to discover how little time had actually passed. An hour, two at the most. Not tonight. He knew, by the gnawing hunger in his stomach, that he had been here for hours.

Heard the grandfather clock in the hallway strike midnight, heard the soft tread of his mother as she ascended to bed. There had been frantic whispering prior to that. He knew she was pleading his case, although he had not been able to make out the actual content of their discussion. Evidently his father had won.

The house was silent, but for the tick of the clock outside his little prison. It had grown cold, and he felt in the dark for the coat pegs he knew were there. His hand brushed against the cool heavy leather of a coat belonging to his father. He unhooked it carefully, and huddled his knees to his chest, pulling the coat over him. The distinctive smell of the leather seemed incredibly familiar and strangely comforting, yet he could not remember ever having seen the man wear it. The clock chimed one.

He dozed fitfully, troubled by dreams of vampires and monsters. That in itself was not unusual, the knowledge that these creatures actually existed only served to fuel his nightmares. What terrified him most about this dream was that he was the monster; pulling back Henderson's head, sinking his teeth into the flesh between his collarbone and neck. The strong metallic taste of blood filling his mouth…

He was jerked out of the dream by a sudden blinding brightness. He scrambled to his knees, pushing the coat onto the floor. The light that flooded in from the hall hurt his eyes, the long hours in the darkness of his prison had made his pupils hypersensitive. He scooted back, away from the open door, and abruptly his father's hands were on him, pulling him bodily from the recesses of the cupboard.

'Please, Father, it hurts!'

He was being hauled along the passageway, his feet barely making contact with the tiled floor. His father's grip was a vice on his upper arm, his fingers biting into soft muscle. In one fluid movement, he opened the front door and shoved Wesley out into the early morning sun. He blinked hard, rubbed his fists over his eyes, and then used the back of his hand to shield them from the brightness of the dawn.

Time slowed; stopped.

And then he heard the tick of the clock in the distance.

'Wesley…' His father 's voice sounded strangely muffled. 'I thought…'

And then he was being held. Strong arms closed tight around his thin frame, and he was wrapped in a powerful embrace. Wesley didn't move, wasn't sure what was going on. Only knew that for the first time in his life, his father was holding him.

The only time, he now realized. And the reason for it was now apparent. Ironically, he had spent quite a bit of time delving into Holtz's past, and was painfully aware of how the man had lost his children. He understood now what the man had feared that morning so long ago. To lose another child …

The revelation hit him with unanticipated force. Somewhere deep down, beneath the intolerance, the impassive pitilessness, the desire to exact retribution, somewhere in the depths of his soul, Holtz had cared for him.

He lowered his head onto his hands.

She watched him, as always, from a distance. He looked broken, as if someone had ripped his world apart. Which was, in essence, what had happened. She had been doing this too long, she knew. She had allowed her love for this lost one to infect her soul. Even after she had discovered his birthright, when she should have hardened her heart. She had a job to do. There was no place here for love… or forgiveness.

A breeze rustled through the trees, and she drew her sweater closer around her shoulders, the evening air chilling her arms.

'So, you've been watching him.'

She looked up, startled by the figure that stood in the shadows. He stepped forward, the setting sun lending his skin a pinkish hue. Her heart skipped a beat, and she took a deep breath, willing herself to sound calm.

'Hello, Daniel.'

Holtz seated himself next to her on the park bench.

'Hello, my dear.'


	11. Lost and Found

TITLE : Present Imperfect

AUTHOR : Eloise

RATING : PG13

DISCLAIMER : Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. (Well, maybe just a little.)

NOTES : Chap 11 of 11! Can I just say how much I appreciated all the gorgeous feedback – this is the first fic I've actually uploaded, and your kind reviews kept me writing when I should have been sleeping! Big thanks to my hubby, who accepts my Wes obsession, and looked after the kids, cooked tea etc, etc while I wrote!

I've referenced quite a few Angel eps in this chap – you may recognize dialogue from "Happy Anniversary", "There's no place like Plrtz Glrb", "Dad", "Loyalty" and "Slouching towards Bethlehem". (I know, that last one is Season 4 – but I just love that line!) 

The title and quote this time come from a heartbreakingly beautiful poem I found in one of my kids' poetry anthologies – it's called "Lost and Found" by John Mole, and was a major inspiration for this fic.

Chapter 11 : Lost and Found

"In my parent's eyes I see

The child that I was meant to be

But who's gone missing, them or me?"

'Let me get this straight. I go away on holiday for a couple of weeks, and while I'm gone, Wesley finds this terrible prophecy, kidnaps Connor, who is then kidnapped by Holtz; gets his throat cut and ends up in his hospital, where his best friend…'

He felt he really should interrupt here, but Cordelia shot him a look that he truly believed would freeze hell. He shut up.

'His best friend,' She continued 'smothers him to death. Only it turns out that he's not his best friend, and that he's fulfilling the prophecy that Wes was trying to stop.' 

She paused briefly, daring him to say something. He did not, knew better than to piss her off when she was in this mood.

'And now I find out that the kid I nursed, whose damned diapers I changed, is actually the man I had the hots for in my Senior year. Ew!'

'Second that Ew, with a side order of Gross.' Gunn chimed in.

She sent him the Ice Queen glare, and he also shut up.

'So. To recap. Wesley is Angel's son. Holtz is his stepfather. I'm his aunt, and he's his own uncle.' She huffed out a little sigh.

"I'm sorry, but did we all just fall through a portal to a parallel dimension? Or Arkansas?'

He wasn't sure how many times he was going to have to explain this before they would accept it. Hell, he was finding it difficult to accept. He looked round the office at the other members of Angel Investigations.

Gunn looked as if someone had smacked him about the head with a rather large, freshly caught halibut.

'English … is Connor? But how did he… What about the… How did you…?'

We're right there with you, sweetie.'  Lorne crossed his legs, as he perched on the edge of the desk.

Fred sucked in a gasp of air, and they all turned to her. She seemed a little off balance, gave a small inappropriate giggle that reminded Angel briefly of the Pylean Fred.

'I was just thinking about when Connor was born, remember?'

'The event does hold some significance for me, Fred.' He returned sarcastically.

She blinked rapidly, appeared to regain a degree of control over her sanity.

'No, remember when we were in the hospital afterwards, and everything was going to be okay. When you named him…'

God, yes, now he remembered. Settling his perfect baby boy into the pushchair that Gunn had brought, Wes smiling faintly…

'Connor – that's a lovely name. I don't suppose you ever considered…'

'He wanted you to name him Wesley.' Her eyes became huge behind her glasses. 'You don't think he knew, do you?'

He looked at her, gave her a gentle, comforting smile. 'No, Fred, he didn't know.'

Cordelia was still standing in the centre of the room, her arms folded across her chest, a 'don't mess with me buster' attitude in her stance.

'So where is he?'

He did not answer, tapped his booted toe against the leg of the chair he was sitting on.

'Oh, crap! You lost him again, didn't you? I swear to God, Angel, you two are gonna drive me crazy!'

'He's not lost, Cordy. He's just… well, he doesn't want to be found.' He paused. 'Well, not yet.'

'You know, you really are as stupid as you look.' She snapped. ' He's out there, doing the genetically inherited brooding thing. Angel, the guy just found out he kidnapped himself. This is not a good time for him to be alone with his thoughts!'

Lorne nodded his agreement. 'Gotta say I agree with the Princess here.'

She rounded on him. 'And you, Bonanza Boy, can just shut up! At least Mr. Tall, Dark and Mentally Deficient here has an excuse! What's yours?"

Lorne scooted back on the desk a little. 'What?'

'You read him, right? When we did that drunken singalong thing after Brood Boy fired us. How come you didn't see this?' She hissed.

'Read them as I see them, sweetheart,' Lorne snapped back. ' All I got was he was going to be important to Angel. I'm afraid the Powers that Be didn't give me a heads-up on this little secret!'

He remembered again, the host getting under his skin, after he had turned his back on his friends.

('And the British boy? He's going to be playing a huge… well…')

'Okay.' He stood up and lifted his duster from the back of his chair. "We go and find him.'

'I can show you where he is, if you wish.'

He wasn't sure how she had managed to slip into the hotel unnoticed. She was standing in the outer office, her demonic visage calm and expressionless.

'He's in terrible pain, Angel.'

Oh, he couldn't hear this. The thought of his son, his best friend, his brother, in pain, made his heart split open.

'You see, he believes all this to be his fault. Knowing he's responsible for causing you and himself so much grief. That's a burden no one should have to bear.'

It had gone very still. No one moved, no sound disturbed the loaded silence. She gazed at him impassively, and he was struck again by the familiarity of her eyes.

'You can help him, you know.'

Anything, he would do anything for his boy. Make the hurting stop; make the guilt and anguish go away.

'Tell me.'

'If he had never taken the baby, he would be here now, you and he would both be happy…'

He was aware now of Cordelia beside him, touching his sleeve carefully.

'Angel, think about this…'

He pushed her away, but not roughly.

'Tell me what to do.'

Her voice soft, floating to him.' All you have to do is wish.'

He was mesmerized by her eyes, by the amber stone in her locket that eerily matched their colour. He closed his own eyes.

'I wish that Wesley had never…'

'I would consider very carefully what you are about to wish for, if I were you, Angelus.'

A hiss of frustration and despair escaped her lips.

'You said you'd help me, Daniel!'

Holtz walked down the steps by the main door of the lobby, placed his raincoat on the office counter.

'I lied, my dear.'

'As did you.' Wesley stood at the entrance to the atrium.

Gunn went to the office door and peered out.

'If anyone else is planning on a surprise entrance, now would be a good time.' He broke off as Fred nudged him in the stomach, hard. 'Damn, but you got some sharp elbows, baby!' He whispered under his breath.

Wesley made his way slowly to the sofa in the centre of the lobby. Sat down very carefully.

'You lied to me. You told me this wasn't about Angel.' He looked up, blue eyes seeking out Angel's own. 'And it so clearly is.'

'When isn't it?' He heard Cordy mutter behind him

'Guys. Please?'

Lorne stood up and pushed him gently out of the office.

'Okay, daddy bear, we get it. Shutting up now. Just know that we're here if you or the lamb need us.'

He looked over at Wesley as he spoke, directing a gentle smile at him, granting absolution. A look of heartfelt gratitude was returned, and Angel was suddenly reminded of what a nice guy Lorne really was. The door closed behind him.

She was right; Wesley was in pain. He looked dreadful; his skin was as pale as his own. He had heavy stubble growth above his bandaged wound, and his blue eyes were underscored with dark smudges. It registered with him now that Wes had lost his glasses; was not able to hide the pain behind them.

The demon, who appeared to know Holtz, and Wes, for that matter, clenched tight fists by her sides.

'How could you stop him!  After everything he did to you… to Caroline and Sarah and the baby…'

It dawned on him now. Where he had seen eyes like that…

(She had fought, kicked, screamed and thrashed like a woman possessed. Angelus had loved that. It was always so much better when they fought…)

'They're gone, Halle. Nothing is bringing them back. I've devoted my life, my very existence, to bringing this creature to some kind of justice. But I've discovered, as you will too, my dear, that sometimes the price of vengeance is too high to pay.' 

She slapped the older man across the face, then, hard; and he rocked a little from the blow, but did not retaliate. 

'You dare to lecture me on vengeance, Daniel, after what you did to the boy!'

She sobbed a swift breath, and her demon visage faded back to human form.

'I didn't even recognize you, at first! Daniel, what _happened to you? You were a good man… a good father…'_

Holtz took her hands in his, very gently.

'I let myself be consumed by my need for revenge. I made mistakes…'

There was a gasp from Wesley, a hitch in his breathing that lasted an eternity.

'Halle, I know you're a good person. The same good person your sister was. Are you really willing to sacrifice him to punish the vampire?'

('I wish that Wesley had never taken Connor')

All at once he realized what that would mean. Wesley would no longer exist. He closed his eyes, reliving the past three years…

Cordelia and he, lost after Doyle's death, had welcomed Wes into their lives with a degree of wariness. 

A flash – and he was in the deserted warehouse, watching Wesley fire two shots into a canister of liquid nitrogen, held by the Haxil beast…

A flash – and the look of embarrassed modesty as Cordy explained how he'd figured out the key to the restraint bracelet Angel had worn in his gladiatorial prison…

A flash – and he saw a man prepared to risk his life to save that of the woman who'd tortured him…

Too many times to count, Wesley had been there, supporting him, saving him, giving him strength when he could no longer find it within himself.

A flash – in the darkness of Pylean night…

'Wes, I do this, you know I won't come back from it.'

'Yes, you will. I know you; we know you. We know you're a man with a demon inside, not the other way round. We know you have the strength to do what has to be done, and you will come back to us.'

Steady blue eyes met his; a firm hand on his shoulder.

'You'll come back.'

Without Wesley, he would have been lost.

'Are you?' Holtz's voice was solemn; he held his sister-in-law's hands tight in his. 'Are you willing to take away the one child I have left?'

She shook her head, dropped her chin low, weeping silently.

'Come, my dear. There's nothing more for you to do here.' 

She nodded; moved towards the hotel entrance.

'Holtz… wait… please.' Angel whispered.

The Englishman turned, met his gaze impassively.

'Thank you.' 

'It wasn't for you, vampire.' His voice soft. 'My motives were purely selfish.'

His eyes flicked briefly to the sofa. 'Remember what I told you, Angelus.'

('Your son is mine. He'll always be mine.')

Without another word, he turned and strode over to the sofa. Wes was on his feet instantly, a reflex learned from early childhood.

'Wesley.' The older man said his name firmly.

'Father… I mean…Holtz,' He whispered, and Angel's heart cracked.

'Be a good boy.'

'Yes, sir.'

With that, the older man turned and joined the woman at the door.

'Remember, Angelus.'

And they were gone.

He was sitting in the atrium, the moonlight making his skin almost translucent. His hands were clasped on his knees, head bent low as if in prayer. Angel slipped the little velvet box into his pocket and came down the steps to join him on the low stone bench.

'You okay, Wes?'

He looked at him, just a trace of the old Wesley in the raised eyebrows, the upside down quirk of a smile.

'Okay, stupid question.' 

He snapped the box open, carefully plucked the ring from its velvet bed.

'He gave me this.' He placed the gold ring in Wesley's palm.

The younger man's head dropped low again, and he heard his breathing catch. Waited for the sobs to begin.

Was rather surprised to hear a low chuckle from the Englishman.

'God, I hated him!'

"Holtz?'

That made him laugh even more.

'No. My Uncle Wesley. All my life he was held up as this shining bloody beacon of all that was good and pure and true. He had sacrificed himself in the cause of righteousness, and I could never live up to him, no matter how hard I tried.'

Wesley pushed the ring onto his finger, tightened his pale hand into a loose fist.

He was not laughing any more.

'Angel, do you think, maybe…' Wesley stopped, and he felt him searching hard for the words he needed. ' Do you think maybe… he loved me? Holtz, I mean?'

(Your son is mine. He'll always be mine.')

'Love can be a terrible thing.' He echoed Wesley's own words back to him. The younger man nodded, and bowed his head again.

'It's never simple, is it?'

Angel placed his hand over Wesley's, held it gently, but firmly.

'No, Connor. It never is.'

For a while they sat, side by side, the silence broken only by the gentle whisper of a breeze in the honeysuckle bushes, and the quiet sobs of his son.

FIN


End file.
